prepared the seeds for sowing and then finding that Redbourn had sold out of peat pots. It felt unusual, even after only four days abstention.
Clumsiness was in evidence today: doing things in a rush without concentration and…crash!
I was aware of two demonic pacts: sitting, lazing, over lunch, I began to think wrathfully about the civil service. As my anger mounted I leapt to my feet and busied myself—i.e. I used the anger to combat my inertia. Similarly, in the evening I was working at seed-sowing too late—when I should have been making supper—but the desire to show off how well I was eating to N (and to shame his efforts) reminded me to start supper before he went out.
In a way it was clever to play off demons but, a) will I become enslaved by the process, and, b) does the fact that there are low-grade demons encouraging me in my work augur well for its effect on me?
I fitted a padlock on the oratory door and am preparing beeswax for polish.
Saturday 16 April
Saw no significance in forgotten dream.
The wretched alarm woke me at about 4, so I was late and bleary for the sunrise. Very sharp frost—coldest morning yet. Lovely and clear till 11, when it clouded over.
After break, I read the chapter on Abramelin in The Tree of Life. It was very good, and reminded me of some important psychological points. I'm concentrating more on finding a routine than on putting a lot of pressure on, which could be all right provided I monitor my prayers carefully.
K rang a.m. She is okay, but she's had more trouble rising than me.
I'd been chatting with N immediately before “evenmed” and so kicked off with a silent meditation to cool valves.
Did some gardening (hoeing), cleaning of sitting room, fixing up warm electric propagator, and work in the oratory. It's been a good day, but not a great day.
At time of solar return I was hoeing garden.
Horror of horrors! On going to bed I glanced at Abramelin and saw that I'd misunderstood the cleaning and perfuming bit: I'd taken it for Sunday instead of Saturday. Of course, I can see now that the oratory must be cleaned before the holy day. This is so obvious that it led me to seek for the meaning of my absurd oversight. Yes, it typifies what has been wrong in much of my work: while I'm spending my time daydreaming and planning the wonderful completion of the work, I forget the most elementary beginning steps.
Late last night I hastily swept and perfumed the chamber, changed the linen and then had bath. Oh dear, what a hell of a lot of laundry! I resolved on an early start tomorrow morning so I can sweep the oratory before sunrise.
Sunday 17 April
Interesting dream: I was at some sort of gathering or conference. I can't remember much about the early incidents except that they relate to my pride and snobbery. Amongst the names of those attending was an extraordinary one: “Therese” (as it were) d'LionelSnell of…I was intrigued to find my name within another, and tried to locate her.
When she was pointed out to me I saw a rather black-haired, dusky-skinned (i.e. Spanish or Southern Italian) girl standing with another. I introduced myself and commented on our names, but she did not seem impressed. “What was that about your name?” her friend asked. (They both had nice foreign accents.) “Oh, it's just that it's made from an English name,” she replied. They were a bit giggly, like girls together. She said something polite, like: “How interesting, nice to have met you,” and they went back to their seats. I had been told they were from a nunnery (convent school).
Although I was a bit disappointed, I forgot about it, but was then surprised when she came up to me again and greeted me. In view of her background and earlier behaviour, even this modest greeting struck me as very forward. Interested, I suggested we meet again, to which she agreed and said we could have a chat. By now I was feeling a bit shy myself, so I said, “Perhaps I can buy you a meal”. She laughed and said, “I hope we have more than a meal together!”
This parting remark embarrassed me and awoke old fears of inadequacy; she did seem a bit hot to handle! But very sweet about it.
Then she came for me. “Quickly,” she said. “Follow me! We must not be seen together too much, because we are a party of schoolgirls and the rest will be jealous and spiteful.”
I recall assuming that, being from a convent, she would not be on the pill; fortunately I had a (blue) contraceptive left over. Surprised at my confidence, I got under her clothes and we had a great time.
It struck me as all too good to be true; a sort of temptation for the Abramelin operation.
After that I became divided into the “observer” and “Lionel Snell” who became more glamorous and dashing. We had a happy time together and LS made some toast, holding the bread with his bare hands and deftly tossing it over. She laughed in admiration, saying, “You can do anything! I bet you can't interpret dreams though!”
LS said he could, but was a little uncertain. She described a dream of an old abbey in Nailsworth. “Nailsworth?” asked LS. “Write it,” said she. “Ah yes, that was it, ‘Nailsworth’.” In this abbey's graveyard was a tomb with a de LionelSnell inscription.
Excited at the hope of solving the mystery of her name, LS and she went to “Nailsworth”. She led him into a vast mausoleum, of the “these of our fellows who died in the Great War” type, with rows and rows of little plaques.
We searched in vain, though there were some near-misses. She tried to recall where.
An amusing sideline was provided by two smartly dressed men—lawyer types—who were also in the mausoleum and were evidently freemasons for, with exaggerated secrecy, they whispered together in urgent tones, “I say, did you notice the names on that row added up to ninety-nine?” “Yes, I bet there are ninety-nine of them too.”
Suddenly she became excited and said, “Follow me.” We dashed up some marble stairs and into a sort of library, where she rushed over to a bench and sat beside some young boys. “Look!” she said, and smiled at them while they, in turn, looked up and smiled back. There was a strong resemblance; I can't think how, for the boys were blond.
They were called “Snell-Thompson”. The oldest had to leave to be beaten, and as we followed them the girl, excited to be on the trail, turned and said, “They went to Eton!”
As we waited outside the room, we heard the swish of cane. What had he done wrong? He'd carved some Latin nonsense on a form, which had included the word “Snell”. She got excited and asked LS to write in my own writing, “Lionel Snell cometh” (or something like that). We compared it with the boy's crude carving and realised that it could be read as that.
This was the clue we needed for the rest of the truth to come out! Near the old abbey was an old pool with a notice saying that in times of invasion the bell would summon all the young men, and any who did not come at once would be denounced as traitors.
Years ago, one “Lionel Snell” had received this summons, and he had been supposedly slain in battle. The bodies were put on a great tip and burnt with chemicals—quicklime presumably. These chemicals would kill anything, so Lionel Snell could not have survived.
Here, young Snell-Thompson spoke up: “See that dog?”—it was a wretched, maimed and limping white mongrel amongst
